Is farming a political act?

Where does your food come from?

The supermarket? A farmer’s market? A field 20 feet outside your house?

How often do you think about where your food comes from? Is your food local? Is it sustainably produced? Did the famers use fertilizer? Did they responsibly water their plants? 

The rise of the American supermarket coincided with the rise of suburbia in the 1950’s. Before that, farming was confined to a local scale. At the same time, there was a mass advance in farming technology known, ironically, as the ‘green revolution’ . These technologies were mostly world war two technologies, co-opted into farming machines. For example, companies in political warfare went into chemical fertilizers. All this new technology (in addition to massively causing global climate change) made it easier for farms to get bigger and specialize in single crops. Add to this stew of nitrogen and fossil fuels, the subsidies that corn and soybean farmers received under FDR and what do you have total? Huge farms that grow only one crop (usually corn or soybeans) rapidly deplete resources, add a huge quantity of artificial fertilizers to the soil, massively misuse water, and exploit already under privileged workers. The idea of in-season food is virtually non-existent in this system. Do you know when kiwis grow in upstate New York? I’ll give you (the non-existent reader) a hint: never. You can’t grow kiwis at all, period, ever in upstate New York. But they’re sold in New York supermarkets, shipped all the way from Cuba or Spain.

So in this way, local farms that use organic, sustainable practices and treats their workers well are political in nature. Systems of oppression in capitalism are all intertwined and by fighting global climate change and providing sustainable food to the community, the small farmer is by nature fighting systems of oppression. 

But organic food is often overpriced in a way that can contribute to classism and gentrification. I’ve been to some organic small farms that don’t treat their workers very well at all. Some famers complain that even the label of ‘organic’ is expensive to achieve and holds the small farmer at a disadvantage and makes it harder for start up farmers, people who are necessary to combat climate change. So in that sense, is working on a small farm still a political act? I don’t know. 

When I think of political action I think in terms of Martin Luther King and Audrey Lord and the Standing rock protest. The first thing I think of when I think ‘activist’ is a protesters walking down the street stopping traffic and holding large, multi-colored signs. And I know activism is more than that. There’s that quote circulating by Shane Claiborne: “everyone wants a revolution but no one wants to do the dishes” and I think that’s true. There’s a lot that goes on behind the scene with political change and maybe farming is part of that. But I think that (at least for me) it’s not enough. If I work on a farm without learning about local aquifers, without trying to instate an effective composting system, without trying to minimize the farm input and output, then that’s not enough for me. Here are three of my goals for the next two months of residency in Arizona on a farm: 1) Initiate and engage with a composting system that does more than throwing our food scraps to the pigs 2) Be more conscious about buying food off the farm (making sure it’s local, organic, and in season) 3) Learn where our water comes from and how to use it most efficiently.

So I hope next time you go to the store, you pause for an instant before you buy bananas and think about some of these questions. On an unrelated note: did you know government subsidized lesbian farmers are Rush Limbaugh’s worst nightmare?

It's getting pretentious in here!

(so take off all your clothes)

Driving in the car

Rain on the windshield

Think snapshot

Think couplet

This is a rhyme

This is a correct

Grammatical sentence

But so is that bit about green dreaming furiously

Think metaphor

But more literal

A laugh feels like a hot indoor shower after a day in the cold rain.

Dancing feels like a laugh.

When I'm done dancing, my legs still feel like they're moving in circles and learned patterns.

That is to say they feel like a laugh.

That is to say they feel like a hot shower.

Rain on the windshield casts transparent shadows

You can see through the shadows onto skin, for example.

Skin being touched by another skin, for example

Human contact seems concrete under flickering water shadows and streetlight.

I pick raspberries in the late october rain.

My fingers trembled but the berries are sweet.

To give good food is my love language.

“take this squash” (I love you)

“try the carrots” (I love you)

“have some radishes” (I love you)

But the problem is that when I spent three semesters in Chinese you spent a year abroad in a German immersion course.

The problem is you want someone to settle down with and I’m only in town for a week because my gap year is about traveling.

The problem is I wanted to date a woman and you wanted someone who would love you as a man.

The problem is you wanted to look good in front of your friends and I don’t shave my armpits

The problem is every poem I write is about me

But not this one.

This one is a metaphor

Didn’t listen?

“The writer uses multiple ‘you’s in the poem; some to indicate her ex-lovers and some address the reader. The technique is a rather sloppy way to try to immerse the reader in the poem.”

Is what my poetry teacher would say.

It’s a poem and

A dance and

A laugh and

Sweet raspberries off the bush in cold and rainy October.

I picked them just for you.

Here's more election reaction

Hello to my possibly existent readers. Last time we talked (read: I posted on my lonely blog) was pre-election. I feel like since then a lot of things have changed. As a result, allow me to re-introduce myself. I am . . . Matt . . . Smith and I am a . . .heterosexual white. . . Christian . . . neurotypical . . . male in the upper 1% of the wealth bracket. Sure. And to post otherwise, in a country that elected Donald Trump is at best inviting scornful internet trolls and at at worst downright dangerous. The youtube blogger Vi Hart has an excellent video on internet trolls that isn't a response to the election but still powerful to watch. Nonetheless, I'm sure you've seen and heard all the discourse you need to hear on the election. Most of what you believe (which, if you read this blog for fun is probably pretty liberal) has been said by your and all of your facebook and tumblr and non-electronic friends.

I got a form of birth control called the implant yesterday. It lasts 4 years and goes into your arm and slowly secretes hormones for that time. When I went to planned parenthood yesterday(ish) to get it in, the office is packed. I've been planning on getting this birth control for about six months(more on that later, maybe) but I do wonder if the huge crowd in the office had something to do with Trump’s election. As a person with a uterus and ovaries, the fact that I might not have control over them for the next four years is fucking terrifying. But I’ll spare you the sob story. At the end of this I’ll have citizenship within this country and a home (or at least my parents’ home) over my head. Look, there are resources for ways to take social action after the election. I need catharsis and the way I find it is talking at the internet. Take care of yourself, love yourself in any way you can, and ask for help when you need it.

An election reaction

*Edgar Allen Poe wrote "The Raven" and all I got was this crappy election day catharsis. Please don't sue me if you own the rights to "The Raven"*

Election day dawned bright and cheery, not a single mind was leary

Unaware of tragedy looming ‘round the evening news.

Evening came, I read election maps with nothing near suspicion

That our next great leader might be a cheat; I waited without a clue.

Election reporters sat ‘round table on the news.

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was on the eight November

And each separate TV pixel cast his face from off the screen

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a clapping

Clapping from bat-shit supporters as if another stress-wrought dream

I wanted to mourn and scream.

The speech silken, sad and broken, issued from Hilary’s spokesperson

Made me know reality was terrible and bleak

Eighty-five to fifteen and falling, with her supporters endless calling

But alas for them that day the white men reached their peak

No millennial would save her, they preferred Stien’s hopeless speech.

The map was colored red that night; An ominous color shining bright

The whiskey bottle passed around, we waited then against all odds

I fell into a sort of mania when I saw he’d taken Pennsylvania

I found myself weakly grasping at straws

Looking for any possible signs of fraud.

The next day white tears filled the internet, no one was thrilled

He was too radical even for the GOP, Ted Cruz and Paul Ryan

Couldn’t endorse his radical ass, the sexual harassment on tape was certainly crass

But the republicans weren’t crying

The won the house, senate: all my hopes were dying.

I know it’s not my space to be martyred, I only want to be an ally in this place.

So yes, as a Jew-ish white passing woman I haven’t bore

The brunt of the hate, I have a lucky fate

But that doesn’t change the fact that I abhor

This spray tanned misogynist, a literal bore.

So rally to this cry: “Nevermore”

A poem to That Girl

*like all my pieces, in order to acknowledge that the people were real, I'd have to first acknowledge reality--any resemblance to real people paces, and things is just as surprising to me as it is to you in this vast universe*

This is a poem to that girl
You know, the girl in the back of the cafeteria with heavy black eyeliner
The girl your parents would never let you bring to your house
You know, that girl.

But maybe one day that girl is waiting for the late bus and the two of you are the only ones waiting.
And maybe you find out that you have the same taste in music
And she smiles the sweetest smile at you like high fructose corn syrup.
You know it's bad for you because she's that girl but every time you taste it you want more.

And maybe that girl has some really funny jokes
That bubble like champagne in your chest.
Maybe you and that girl sit next to each other and english class and she shows you her notebook and it is full of intricate drawings of fish.
You wonder if the fish are swimming through corn syrup.

And to you, that girl slowly becomes Chelsea, or Angelica, or Kris
But to your friends, to your mom, to your older sister, she's still that girl.
So that girl becomes the subject of poems you write. Poems you know you'll never read out loud.
And you learn that girl wants to be a professional sports reporter
And in her spare time she wants to collect exotic fish.
And the days drip by like corn syrup.

You and that girl are sitting together at lunch every day, after a few months.
Your former friends warn you, together you are in danger of becoming those girls
But that girl teaches you how to put on eyeliner and her hands on your face make you forget.
You are the one who melts into syrup under her hands.

You're with that girl the first time you get drunk
The first time you get high.
The first time you kiss a boy is at a party with that girl
Although by the time you get around to the boy kissing you realize you'd rather be kissing that girl anyway.
The boy tastes of beer and bitterness.
You bet kissing that girl would be as sweet as the corn syrup smile she wears.

Your family notes you've been spending a lot of time at that girl's house.
You get angry and tell them it's a whore house and den of general debauchery.
But in reality that girl has nice parents and a big suburban house.
You sleep over and paint each others nails.
You and that girl and go out to Ihop in the middle of the night.
You watch as she pours syrup on her pancakes.


And then you and that girl are at the end of senior year.
And you are going off to Smith to double major in political science and gender theory and that girl landed an art scholarship at Cornell for her fish drawings. To everyone's surprise.
You still haven't told her how you feel because,
Sometime in the hours you spent eating lunch together,
And painting each other's fingernails,
And waking up next to her
She stopped being that girl you want to avoid and started being that girl you couldn't stand to lose
And you think maybe if you told her you loved her then you'd lose her
And all you would have left would be the sticky sweet of corn syrup in your memory.

Update on gender and contra

Skip this paragraph if you don’t want my ramblings but are instead only interested in gender and contra. So, after contra dancing in New York City all weekend I learned a few new things. One is: even though I did learn a ton of fancy new flourishes that I can do, I don’t have to do them, particularly if there isn’t time. Two is that although I’m pretty good at contra and moderately good at waltz, I’m still not as good as I think I am. Two is: I learned the beginning of blues dancing. Three is: I’m downright bad at blues dancing. And finally, four is that I learned more about gendered language and contra. Most of this information is from a young queer, politically active caller and a young gender queer dancer who’s been dancing for a quantifiably long time. Any information that seems wrong is probably my fault, and not theirs. 

In the previous post I remarked that I didn’t understand why ladies and gents was preferable to lead and follow. The reasoning behind this is because there isn’t really a lead and follow in contra. All the moves in contra are called (the caller tells all the dancers when to do what) and any flourishes that aren’t called are at the discretion of either party dancing, not simply the lead or follow. The caller I was talking to uses ‘ladies’ and ‘gents’ because she doesn’t want to give the people dancing the ladies’ role the idea that they can’t initiate a move. Once ladies and gents have been established, however she uses terms that are as gender neutral as she can make them. ‘Swing your partner’ ‘Swing your neighbor’ ‘pass the next person by the left’. The caller also talked about the importance of using the they/them pronouns. For example, using ‘ladies chain and gents courtesy turn them’ instead of ‘courtesy turn her’. Both the caller and the dancer stated a fondness of the terms ‘larks’ (the person on the left, I think) and ‘ravens’ (who I’m pretty sure is the person on the right). In an ideal world, all dances would be taught with ‘larks’ and ‘ravens’ but since most new dancers are easily confused and already used to the the ‘ladies’ and ‘gents’ terminology, so ‘ladies’ and ‘gents’ are more beginner friendly. 

A story for lost souls

*once again, I would like to remind the reader that all my stories are true and some of them even happened and any resemblance between this and real life is just an accidental agreement of reality*

You and I went dancing. No, that’s not entirely true. You and I were at the same dance. I didn’t know you were going to be there; I didn’t know you before we danced together. You were a good dancer. So am I. We had great chemistry but honestly, if it had ended at the dance I would have gone home and never given you a backwards glance. Instead, after the dance we both happened to agree with out mutual dancing friends to go to a karaoke bar. 

I walked out of the dance into the chilly night air and there you were: standing in a nice coat on the sidewalk, waiting for your friends. I was waiting for my friends, some of them the same friends. We started flirting. The flirting is the best part. I told you about cow tipping and squash and somehow contrived to make it sound charming and worldly. I chose to present my truth as a migrant farmer and independent out of college. I didn’t tell you I was nineteen and didn’t have my bachelor’s yet. But when we got to the bar and I asked you to go in first so I could see if you got carded and I assume you figured some of it out then. 

We danced in the bar. It was a karaoke bar and to be fair, I danced with everyone. But I taught you how to dip and I knew in my low cut tank top make it rather a spectacle. You played darts with a drunk and I caught up with my dancing friends. Finally, I came up to where you were standing. I hopped up on the pool table. You looked at me and I knew you wanted to kiss me. 

So I kissed you first. My hand in your hair and yours on my shoulder. We left the bar together. It happened that we were both riding the subway up town together. We slow danced as we waited for the subway. I couldn’t take my hands off you and your hands were all over me. Your fingers traced circles on my hips, on my shoulders, on my palm. When the subway pulled in I snuggled up next to you. I leaned on you and my tired head on your shoulder. I put my arm around your neck and your hand snaked around my waist and rested on the outside of my thigh. 

I kissed you and you kissed me and when I pulled back I laughed and your lips twitched your eyes sparkled and then you kissed me again. The subway ride stretched into the darkness of the witching hours of the night. I wished the subway would never get to my stop. As we neared, I pulled back from the latest kiss and looked up at you.

“Look, I won’t have sex with you but I’m really enjoying being with you and being touched so would you like to get off at my stop and go for a coffee. How do you feel about that?”

“Yes. I think I’d like that.” Your voice was level and low and swirled the proverbial butterflies in my stomach like spiraling galaxies.

We got off at 96th. The subway station was entirely empty aside from the two of us. I held your hand and leaned my entire side against you. We went to dunkin’ doughnuts and I got hot chocolate and you got tea. We danced to the crappy pop music and the other woman in the store smiled at us and wished us a nice night. My eyes and hands kept going back to you. The magnetic attraction of new love drew me to you. By the way you kept turning towards me, I figured it was pretty safe to assume you felt the same way.

We walked down to Riverside park, hand in hand, the other hands occupied by our hot drinks. The park was empty. I’d never seen Riverside park without anyone else in my whole life. Globes of street light hung on both sides of the empty path and the air was hung with misplaced electricity and dim city starlight. We kissed for what felt like hours and your lips made imprints on my lips, on my cheek, on my neck. Your hands lit up my body with feeling and I felt your breath catch when I kissed your neck. 

Finally, looking out over the Hudson, I noticed gray in the bottom of the sky. Perhaps it was just light pollution but suddenly I felt every one of the nineteen hours I had been awake. I studied your face to memorize it. With dawn coming on, it suddenly felt imperative that I learn every muscle in your body, every line in your palm, every angle on your jaw and cheekbone and eyebrow. And every time I met your eyes you were studying me just as steadily. 

Regretfully, you kissed me goodbye one last time at the bottom of my apartment. You smiled and I smiled back. I kissed you again and the pulled back and turned to open the door. You and turned and walked away and I watched you all the way down the block from the open doorway but you didn’t once look back.

Sensational Snapshots

In the morning, I’m the first one to sit on the outhouse toilet. In the summer, this is fine. I get to see the sunrise and enjoy the cool of morning. In the winter it is bitingly cold. Moisture condenses on the seat and my ass sits exposed to the winter wind.

In truth, the girl in the coffee shop to whom I wrote the love poem was just a fill in. But the poetry came out just fine. Like using oil instead of butter. The cake was just as chocolate-y and moist but no cows were harmed in the making.

Weeding in the rain was cold. And wet. The mud soaked through my thin gloves and into the bones of my fingers.The dirt is heavy with water and my hands ache and feel clumsy with cold. 

The last sex I had was a hook-up over tinder. It was the definition of mediocrity. Thin and covered and pimples and glitter it lasted an hour and then she drove me to my aunt’s house in silence.

Fans spinning, people spinning, salad spinning, laundry spinning. Earth spinning.

Bathtubs, glasses of wine, hot chocolate, fast internet loading Rocky Horror Picture Show, fuzzy sweatpants, soft skin. 

Clean sheets are far more noticeable when they were, up to until I washed them, coated in dirt. Being in dirty sheets is a bit like being in sheets covered in crackers. It’s prickly and unpleasant on the skin but if you’re tired enough, you can sleep through it. 

Driving into the night always seems too dangerous to be legal. but I need to get places at night so I do it anyway.

Finding the clitoris on a map: a fractured fairy tale.

*please note that this piece involves a woman missing her clitoris. This piece is intended purely as tongue and cheek but I think it's important to acknowledge that there is a practice of Female Genital Mutilation that involves removing the clitoris of a person. If you don't know about FGM, please read this link. This piece, in contrast is not at all intended as a comment on FGM but rather as a light-hearted fairy tale parody* 

Once upon a time there was a maiden as kind and smart as the night is long (specifically a winter night). She had a mother who loved her and fed her and a grandmother who healed her and taught her. This maiden was very happy and lived her days with in harmony with the world and the women who loved her. 

And then, one day the maiden woke up to find her clitoris was missing. Her grandmother, who was very wise saw the problem at once. 

“That your clitoris has gone missing is a very bad thing,” said the wise old women “It has more nerves in it than the entirety of the penis and most women can’t orgasm at all without clitoral stimulation. And although not all people with clitorises want sexual pleasure, I want you to have this option open to you, no matter what path you choose to walk on this road.”

The maiden agreed and her mother and grandmother gave her a backpack full of clothes and food. The maiden set out with a heavy heart and a light crotch.

The maiden walked through the nearest town, a town she often visited with the women in her life or alone. As she walked though the town, the innkeeper’s daughter stepped out of the inn. 

“Maiden,” The innkeeper’s daughter called as she approached, “Where are you going dressed for such a long trip?”

The maiden answered honestly, “My clitoris has gone missing and I go to find it.”

“Your clitoris?” The inkeeper’s daughter’s eyes widened, “No! That’s my favorite pleasure sensing cluster of nerves! Would you like a horse to speed you on your way?”

“Yes,” The maiden answered, grateful for the honest help, “Thank you.” And the maiden rode out of town on the inn’s fastest horse.

For twenty days and nights the maiden roamed the countryside on horseback, which probably would have been more fun had she her clitoris to keep her company. On her own it was a lonely task. She rode North, towards the big city, hoping that there she might find some sign of her clitoris.

On the twenty first day, in the middle of a dark wood, tangled with thorn bushes, she came upon a young woman in a red cape, sleeping soundly in the woods. The maiden slowed her horse, and dismounted, unsure of how to treat this woman. Maybe she didn’t want to be disturbed, the maiden thought. But the woman in red was lying right in the middle of the road so the maiden figured she might as well wake the woman so she didn’t get trampled.

“Hello,” the maiden called out, “Miss? I think you’ve fallen asleep in the road miss!”

The woman in red fluttered her eyes and then came awake sitting up. 

“Thank you for waking me!” the woman exclaimed. I’m afraid my narcolepsy must have gotten the better of me again. I was just on my way to my grandmother’s house in the next town and normally I eat to control it but I lost the apple I brought to aid my way and fell into a deep sleep. Thank goodness you didn’t wake me by kissing me or anything rape-y like that.”

“Of course I wouldn’t kiss a sleeping person and violate their consent.” said the maiden, not offend but ashamed at the state of rape culture, even in her own fairy tale, “Can I help you get to your grandmother’s house?”

“I’d love that.” The woman in red replied.

The grandmother’s house was only a few miles down the road, in the direction the maiden was already going. They went into the grandmother’s house and the maiden stayed for dinner and when the grandmother and the woman in red heard the maiden was missing her clitoris they grew sympathetic.

“I heard tales of an island that clitorises go to when they escape,” the grandmother told the maiden, “The island of Lesbos where the great Sappho once lived. I hear tell that she was a great lover of clitorises everywhere and they still go there from time to time to honor her.”

The maiden set off the next morning and after another three days she got to the big city. There there were people and clitorises everywhere but the maiden’s clitoris was nowhere to be found. Instead, a beggar approached her. 

“Excuse me my dear, but due to poorly executed capitalism and the creation of a bourgeois that exploits a working class, I have been trapped in a cycle of poverty. Do you think you could spare some food?”

The maiden only had a dinner of bread and cheese left in her pack but she drew it out and together they finished it. 

After they finished their meal, the beggar asked her what brought her to the big city. The maiden told her and the beggar advised she go seek out the airship docks in the East of the city. 

“There the buildings get taller and taller. Climb to the top of the tallest one and ask for the captain. Tell her the beggar woman sent you. She owes me a favor and she’ll take you where you need to go.”

By the time the maiden got to the tallest building in the East of the big city, dark was falling. She climbed flight upon flight of stairs and when she got to the top she was shocked by a city of floating lights. Airships floated everywhere she looked, hanging off the building like a pier, galaxies of lanterns floated about them as workers climbed riggings and swung from ropes. 

The maiden stopped a sailor walking by and asked to see the captain. The sailor brought her to an airship at the end of the pier, huge and gleaming with touches of silver, gold and chrome. 

The captain was at the fore of the ship, looking out into the middle distance. The maiden introduced herself and explained that the beggar woman had sent her and the captain instantly became welcoming.

“Where can I take you?” The captain asked.

The maiden told the captain of her missing clitoris and the isle of Lesbos and the captain told her they would leave at first light of morning. The captain gave the maiden a fine cabin and in the morning they sailed into the sunrise.

By noon, however, the sky had darkened with thunderclouds. Winds whipped at the sturdy sails of the airship and lightning cut the sky like a knife. The mighty airship was tossed about like a child’s toy accompanied by deafening thunderclaps. The captain ordered the sail be curled up and that everyone sit tight in their cabin until the storm passed.

“We have no control over where we go until it passes anyway!” She shouted over the slanting rain, “We might as well hunker down and wait this out!”

The maiden stayed in the captain’s cabin, ate well with her, and talked the long hours of the away with the captain. Eventually, at the captain’s invitation the maiden fell fast asleep in the captain’s own bed.

When the maiden woke again the storm had passed and a new day had dawned, bright and clear. The ship had been anchored and the crew and captain were busy making repairs. The ship had been battered but not broken and still floated above the tree line where it was anchored.

The captain greeted the maiden warmly and told her she was welcome to go into the town below, for it was likely they would be there the whole day making repairs. 

The maiden descended the rope ladder carefully. She looked around her and was shocked. 

Around the maiden was the very town she had left those 25 long days ago. The maiden wandered to the inn and the innkeeper’s daughter answered the door.

“Maiden!” The innkeeper’s daughter greeted her warmly, “Guess what I found while you were gone!” And the innkeeper’s daughter led the maiden up the stairs to a back room and opened the door and there, on the bed, was the maiden’s clitoris. And the maiden realized what she had been looking for was in front of her all along.

Epilogue: The maiden and and innkeeper’s daughter had gay sex all night and lived happily ever after for the rest of the night.

Here’s a story:

A year ago I sit at a table. I am in the study lounge in my dorm. I’m reading Rousseau’s Social Contract  and when I say reading I mean I am holding the book open and alternating between picking mnms  off the table, sorting those same mnms into grids, looking at the spark-notes version of the same chapter I was on, checking Facebook on occasion and shooting amorous looks at  my friend Al, who was avoiding reading their own book. I read and re-read the line “But it is clear that this supposed right to kill the conquered is by no means deductible from the state of war” and at that instant I had a moment looking at myself from the outside and I heard, clear as day Fuck this! I’m going to be a farmer.

So last Friday I was in the field. I was pulling plastic. There were only two of us in the work crew and it was bitterly cold and raining. The plastic acts as mulch when the plants are growing but the weeds grow through the plastic and it’s hours of standing up, bent over, pulling tangles of weeds out of the ground with all my strength and I had the same moment of self awareness and I heard, Fuck this! I’m going to be a lawyer.